


Stitches and dinner

by lwise2019



Series: Mikkel's Story [22]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Summary: Mikkel stitches up Sigrun's arm, and everyone suffers through dinner.
Series: Mikkel's Story [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536739
Kudos: 9





	Stitches and dinner

As Mikkel and Sigrun turned and departed the makeshift clinic -- now ancient morgue -- she observed, "I think my arm needs a stitch." Looking at the jagged rip in her jacket sleeve, Mikkel answered drily, "You may have more than one."

They were going down the steps when Mikkel realized that Emil was still inside, staring with mingled horror and sorrow at the sheet-covered skeletons. "Emil, are you coming!?" Mikkel called impatiently. "Ah -- yeah," the young Cleanser replied, falling in behind them.

"So, are we going to lose the nuisance?" Sigrun asked quietly.

"No, I don't believe so. He was wearing his mask and his skin wasn't broken -- you took the brunt of the attack and his jacket stopped the rest. He's okay."

"Good. I don't want him, but I don't want to lose him _that_ way."

They were greeted at the tank by Tuuri, peeking around the door and still wearing her mask. "Where is Reynir?" Mikkel asked immediately.

"I'm sorry," she apologized nervously, "we didn't know what to do so I quarantined him in the office."

Well, that was as good a place as any for him, Mikkel thought, though he assured Tuuri that quarantine was unnecessary and she was in no danger. For now, cleaning and stitching Sigrun's arm was the highest priority. She was immune to the Rash, of course, but there were plenty of other infections that could set in on an open wound. "We have anesthetic ..." he began, but she gestured dismissively. "Just sew it up. Keep the anesthetic for when we really need it."

"I hope you don't mind a couple of scars from this. Stitchwork isn't one of my strong suits."

"It's fine, I don't care," she answered, looking away as he set to work cleaning and disinfecting the wounds. It had to hurt, he thought, but she scarcely winced. Several other scars on that arm bore witness to the rigors of her trollhunting life. Mikkel set to work with needle and sutures, doing his best to be neat and careful, but his traitor fingers always seemed to push the needle in a little away from the intended spot.

After stoically enduring the stitching for several minutes, Sigrun observed, "Freckles thinks he's about to die. Handle that for me, will you?"

Mikkel looked over to see Reynir sitting on Mikkel's own bunk, staring at the floor in a pose of utter dejection. "Reynir!"

"Yes?" The Icelander barely raised his head but his innate politeness forced him to respond.

"You're not about to die."

Reynir sat up in surprise. "But!" he began, and Mikkel interrupted, "The bruise you have on your arm did not break the skin; the illness cannot enter your body through the tissue. In case your arm looked like _this_ ," he raised Sigrun's injured arm for display, ignoring her annoyed grunt, "your worries would be warranted."

"But I was so close to it ..."

"Does not matter," Mikkel stated firmly, "Your _mouth_ might be a gaping wound so far as infectious particles are concerned, but that's not a concern with a mask on. In conclusion: you are safe unless you went ahead and licked your arm. _Did_ you lick your arm?"

Reynir's expression was a little stunned, going in a matter of moments from grieving that his short life was about to end in a hideous death, to disbelief that he was unharmed, to joy at his survival, to confusion at Mikkel's long-winded explanation and question. "Uh ... uh ... No."

"Well done." To Sigrun Mikkel added, "And this is finished."

Looking down at the rather untidy stitches, she answered with some disbelief of her own, "So you were _not_ kidding, you suck at stitches. I mean, I've had worse, but still!"

As she, slightly smiling, showed off her latest war-wounds to Emil, Mikkel turned away to stow the medical supplies in their poorly-equipped first aid kit. "They will serve their purpose regardless," he stated, "We only have to make sure the wounds stay dry and clean from now on." To Emil he added, "I'll start heating supper and then take a look at that leg of yours."

Walking away, he didn't see Emil grimace, still looking at Sigrun's ragged stitches. "Yeah, it's okay, I don't need that. My leg is fine."

It didn't take long to reheat the soup from the morning and the meal was accepted with little enthusiasm, Tuuri and Reynir offering polite but not fulsome thanks, Emil grimacing without comment, and Sigrun grumbling. They all recognized that, however distasteful they found vegetable soup thickened with tallow, it was somewhat better than starvation.

"Lalli?" Emil called softly, "You're missing ... um ... food."

"Let him sleep," Mikkel advised. "There's plenty more for when he wakes up."

Emil looked at his half-empty bowl, shuddered slightly, and continued to choke down the contents.

Fueling himself without pleasure, Mikkel listened to Reynir and Tuuri chatting.

"I kinda wish I could ask your cousin something," Reynir said.

"I can ask him when he wakes up. What do you want to know?

"Oh, there's these odd ghost things out there. Just curious what they are."

"Mmh, Lalli mentioned seeing something like that earlier. I doubt he'd know; he calls things 'weird' when he has no clue." That was a surprise to Mikkel. Lalli had seen "ghosts" too? That was strange and troubling. Mikkel didn't believe in ghosts, but if two people who could not communicate both saw something they interpreted as ghosts … but Reynir was talking again.

"Well, that's a pity."

"Wait ... so you saw them too?"

"Maybe your _brother_ would know!"

"Uh, um, maybe. I can't ask _him_ though so ... you know ..."

"That's okay, you don't need to." That seemed to end the discussion, and Mikkel had nothing to distract him as he mechanically spooned soup into his mouth. He thought wistfully of his mother's herb garden. Any sort of spices would help, even just ... "Salt," he breathed. _Salt is a mineral and doesn't rot or decay,_ he thought. _It's just as good now as it was decades ago, or even centuries! If we can find some ... if Lalli can find some ..._

He would have to talk to Tuuri about asking Lalli to check into restaurants or food shops. There would be salt in houses, of course, but grosslings were far more likely to be lurking in houses than in more public places. He restrained himself from bringing it up with Tuuri immediately. There was no hurry with Lalli collapsed in exhaustion, and no sense getting everyone's hopes up.


End file.
